He is Gone
by SHansen
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John is mourning the loss of Sherlock and dealing with the aftermath.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Notes: **_This story is set in the time where Sherlock is presumed dead after the Reichenbach Fall. John mourns his loss, while Sherlock goes on in secrecy.

Chapters will alternate between John's and Sherlock's POV.

This chapter has been re-uploaded due to a change in the author's notes.

...

He is Gone

Chapter 1.

The cab pulls up at 221b Baker Street. John just sits there for a moment, staring into space. A gentle push from Mrs. Hudson forces his thoughts back to the present moment. "It's time, dear", her kind voice says. John pays the cabbie and they both step out. His eyes wander up along the familiar building. The door, the windows in the upper floors.

"I think I will just go for a walk". He doesn't want to go in to the lifeless flat. Mrs. Hudson nods understandingly and walks in, while Johns turns around and walks down the street. They have just been to Sherlock's grave to leave flowers, and to say goodbye, a week after his funeral. A day John will not easily forget, but does not like to remember...

Reporters had gathered nearby. Only a few friends at the ceremony. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Mycroft, Molly, Mike, and himself. Mrs. Hudson had cried quietly. John had supported her. Sadness and confusion hung in the air. Mycroft kept a distance to the others, especially John. John was just fine with that.

A million thoughts ran through John's head. He didn't hear the few words spoken by the minister. They had agreed to keep it brief. No one wanted an elaboration of who Sherlock was, and how much he had meant, since the only people who had cared about him were the six people gathered there. To the world outside, he was painted as a fraud, a lunatic. When the small gathering was leaving, the reporters outside again started shooting questions and flashing their cameras. Despite his grief, John felt his temper grow hot. _Leave him alone!_ He wanted to shout it, but he knew this was not the place. Instead, he got in to Greg's car along with Mrs. Hudson.

_Blasted reporters. _An image of Kitty Reilly popped into John's mind. He hated them. Granted, he knew that not all were as bad as her. The girl got her big scoop based on a huge lie. _She bought it, just like that_. Fiery hot anger burned inside him at the thought. And nearly everyone else just followed. Yes, he hated them. Ever since Sherlock died, they had followed John around, and Greg as well. John supposed Mycroft was being overrun too, but he could more easily hide. Since Sherlock's suicide, they had camped out in front of 221b. So he had avoided going home. Mike had offered him a sofa, and he had taken it.

The few friends met up briefly after the ceremony, everyone but Mycroft. Few words were said. They sipped their tea quietly. Mrs. Hudson offered homebaked cookies. No attempts were made to lighten the mood, thank goodness. Everyone shook hands, but offered no condolences. Then they left.

That night, John had gone to bed feeling quite numb, except for a heavyness around the heart. He just lay there for a long while, staring up in the ceiling. At one point, the sound of soft sobbing floated up from downstairs. _Mrs. Hudson_. Somehow, it triggered something inside John. Thoughts of what had gone on that day flooded his mind. It hit him. Sherlock was gone. The ache pierced him anew, and tears welled up in his eyes. He sat up, covered his face in his hands, tears finding their way out between his fingers. His shoulders shook, and a repressed sound finally escaped his lips. He sobbed on and off for hours before falling into an uneasy sleep.

Now, a week later, John sits in the park, barely noticing the flow of people passing by. The big unanswered question, _Why_, is growing on his mind. _Why did you jump? Why tell me that lie? _Pain runs through him at remembering Sherlock's words: _I'm a fake... I researched you._ Never. Anger and confusion fill him. _Why?_ But no answer comes. John sighs deeply. Slowly, he gets up from the bench and walks on.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Notes:**_ This chapter has been re-uploaded because of a slight continuity error which I have now corrected.

...

**He is Gone**

Chapter 2

Two small figures were standing by the black gravestone, one of them with her hand safely tucked in the nook of the other's arm for support. Though it was hard to tell who was supporting who. A tall man in a long, dark coat watched them intently from a distance. He could not see their faces, but his keen eyes followed them as they stood there, leaning on each other. The woman slowly turned around and walked along a narrow path towards the church, leaving the man standing by the gravestone.

Sherlock watched as John turned his head for a moment towards Mrs. Hudson, who continued walking. Focusing again on the grave in front of him, John's voice came floating like a soft murmur. He was too far away for Sherlock to make out the words, so his attention went to John's posture. _Upright, arms slightly shifting, shoulders straight... _Sherlock shook his head to free himself from his thoughts. Suddenly he saw John take a few steps forward and gently touch the gravestone. Sherlock swallowed, his brow furrowed. With a swift turn John started down the path that Mrs. Hudson had walked, but just as swiftly he turned again. His murmur now sounded strained, Sherlock noticed, and the next thing that happened made him wince. John's face dropped, and he held his hand to his face, shoulders slightly shaking. Though Sherlock could not hear any sound, it was not hard to figure out that John was crying. Sherlock pursed his lips momentarily and laid a hand on the tree next to him for support. _I will come back, John._ It just couldn't happen yet. But seeing John there, broken down, Sherlock straightened his back, a look of determination in his face. As John turned and walked away, Sherlock watched him for a moment before leaving too. _Soon_, he promised himself.

Five miles from London, Sherlock approached a large, Victorian building in the back of a black Aston Martin. In the twilight the house seemed abandoned, ominous. Truth was, in the light of day it looked..._ mmmh, quite satisfactory_, to Sherlock's taste. He stepped out of the vehicle, buttoned his coat, and turned his collar up.

_"Can we not do this this time? You being all mysterious with your... cheekbones, and turning your coat collar up so you look cool"._ The memory had him taken aback for a second. Then his mouth twisted to one side, and a light flickered in his eyes as he approached the front door.

One soft knock, and the door was opened. A man, just short of Sherlock's height, and wearing a grey suit, welcomed him. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes". "Is he here?" Sherlock asked. "He is in the lounge, Sir". The house had a long corridor stretching from the main entrance to the back of the house where the lounge was located. With long strides, Sherlock quickly reached the lounge door. He paused to briefly scan the room, then strode in past the tall, thin gentleman standing by the fireplace, and sat down in an armchair.

Mycroft Holmes eyed his younger brother intently. "Did John look... presentable?". Sherlock replied in an even tone, "As always". Though his tone and expression revealed nothing, Sherlock's thoughts were certainly fond. Until he remembered the man standing in front of him. He grabbed a newspaper lying on the table beside him and scanned through it absentmindedly.

"Good. Yes". Mycroft sat down in the chair facing Sherlock. His eyes studied Sherlock for a moment longer, then he continued, "I cannot, and you cannot, protect him, if you get too close. His life depends on your discretion -". "I know what his life depends on", Sherlock threw back at him, angrily. His own outburst surprised him. He swallowed, and turned his face. Mycroft said no more.

...

_"Leave a note, when?"_. The defeat in John's voice had been so difficult to listen to. For a moment Sherlock had been lost in it, not able to hear anything else. He just felt pain. _I'm sorry, John._ But the wind had swept throught his clothes, keeping him in touch with the reality of what he had to do. "Goodbye, John". He'd looked ahead, lifted his arms, and lept. In the seconds before impact, he had been so focused on what to do, how to land. It was not until a minute later, while he was being driven off that he had heard John's voice inside him, panically screaming his name: _"Sherlock!"._


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's Notes:**_

Thanks a bunch to all of you who are following and have reviewed my story so far.

**He is Gone**

Chapter 3.

_Sherlock. It really is Sherlock. His features are so clear. The pale, long face, his dark curles, glassy eyes, long coat, scarf._

Pain shot through John's chest, and he twisted in his sleep.

_The image fades._

_No, don't go!_

Tears pooled in his eyes.

_Another face appears. Evil. Contemptuous._

John's body jerked.

_A scornful smile turns into laughter. Taunting him. Increasing in volume. His gaze grows more fierce -_

John woke with a start, breathless, heart pounding. His eyes scanned the room. _No one there._ He realised that he was sitting up. The dream, the nightmare, had woken him. Covering his face with one hand, he drew in short, ragged breaths. Tears rolled down his cheeks. His stomach had tied into a knot. He closed his eyes and tried to calm down. But behind his eyelids, the image of the second face, the evil one, reappeared. John's blood began to boil, and his eyes flashed open. His breathing became heavier. Subconsciously, he cleanched his fist and flipped his feet over the edge of the bed unto the floor. His mouth twisted into a scowl...

A deep, desperate cry, filled with anger, escaped his lips. He kept crying out with eyes shut, his whole body tense with fury. In the back of his mind he barely registered the fast-paced tapping of feet growing louder, until a banging on the door to his room, and a soft, yet frightened voice, "John?", had him take in a deep breath and open his eyes. He kept heaving for air, and again he heard the voice from outside: "John, deary, are you okay?". John could not gather his thoughts, he just sat there, a wild look in his eyes, staring into space, still out of breath. That was how Mrs. Hudson found him when she quietly opened the door.

"John". Water filled Mrs. Hudson's eyes. "Oh, John". Her voice broke, and she hesitated only a second before hurrying to his side and sat down on the bed. "Look at you". Mrs. Hudson tenderly touched his brow and then kept stroking small strands of hair away in slow movements. The touch gradually calmed John's nerves. As his anger gave way, his body slumped, and the familiar ache settled in his chest. "Sherlo... Sherlock". It wasn't an explanation, of course. Mrs. Hudson understood. But John needed to say his name out loud. The older woman placed her arm around John's shoulders and pulled him closer. "I know, deary. I miss him too". Her broken voice ended in a whisper.

They sat there in silence for minutes. John didn't know exactly how long. He just knew that when Mrs. Hudson tucked him in bed again and sat by his side, he felt comforted, despite the ache in his heart. He fell back to sleep and did not wake up until late in the morning.

John came down the stairs to the same sight that had greeted him for days. Boxes filled with science equipment, clothes, stacks of paper. All of it Mrs. Hudson's work. John still could not bring himself to throw it all away. Around the living room, reminders of Sherlock were still in their place. The skull on the mantel piece, knife marks in the table (John had never found out how they got there), smiley face on the wallpaper, holes in the wall. Grief flooding him, he turned his back to all of it and reached for the coffee machine.

Sipping the last of his morning coffee, John peaked at the unread paper in front of him. It was nearly two weeks old. Mundane tasks like throwing out a paper had not been worth his attention lately. He was about to do so now, when a photo caught his attention. It was from the funeral. _ Detective's flatmate remains silent_, the headline read. John narrowed his eyes. _The funeral was attended by only six people; the detective's flatmate, Dr. John Watson... remained quiet. Since the exposure of the deception of Sherlock Holmes and his following suicide, Dr. Watson has been in hiding... _The words became blurry, and Johns grip on the paper tightened. He knew exactly what this looked like, and he cursed at himself for not realising sooner what his avoiding the press would entail. The paper now curled in John's grip, and a look of determination came across his face. Throwing the paper to the floor, he rushed to get his jacket and stormed out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**He is Gone**

Chapter 4

"So where is the link? Think, think! There has to be one", Sherlock ranted with frustration. "The sniper has a toolbox that he places here". He pointed to a place on the carpet, barely wearing the traces of oil and grease - two things normally not connected with Mrs. Hudson and her neat home in Baker Street.

The place - his home - felt oddly unfamiliar. The very moment he had stepped inside it, memories hit him, and he felt cold. It was like he was a stranger, although nothing had changed in the month he had been away. Except one thing - he didn't live here anymore. Was that it? Annoyed with himself, Sherlock shook his head. _Enough!_ There was no time to muse over sentiment.

_"I had hired a carpenter that day. Bit of a rough looking sort of fellow; very nice, though"._ Mycroft had gotten the information from Mrs. Hudson. He also got the name of the company through which she had hired the man. Turned out that the company had not sent a man to Baker Street. It was the sniper, then. Sherlock needed to get back to the flat, and he found out what would be the perfect time. However, after a month it wasn't exactly easy finding a lead.

After four minutes of gathering any information he possibly could - which was not much, but enough for him - he headed for the front door. He was dressed in an attire so unlike his usual ones that no one would recognise him. Plus, the hairpiece helped a lot. As he reached for the door handle, a strange sensation - was it sentiment again? - sneaked up on him. Torn between his reasoning that told him to get out, and his sudden desire to see his flat - John's flat - he glanced to the staircase. "Oh, fine!" Sherlock ran up the stairs, hating that sentiment had won out.

The sight that greeted him was that of boxes of science equipment and books and what-not stabled around the living room. Sherlock wondered briefly what John might do with his things. He did not like the thought of wasting all his precious equipment - didn't like it at all - but he couldn't very well take it with him. _Well, maybe just... _Sherlock reached into a box and searched for one of his more expensice devices. _Not there._ Grabbing for a second box, he suddenly stopped. His eyes caught the coffee table, or more specifically stains, obvious stains on it. He straightened his tall figure and scanned the room. _Dust on the shelves, crinkles in the sofa fabric, dirt on the floor, and... _Moving into the kitchen, he observed a few more things... _Dirty dishes - days old, in fact - but only a few items... _He opened the fridge. _Nearly empty_. Each observation made his heart drop a little further. _He barely eats, stays inside on the sofa mostly, he doesn't clean, and he won't let Mrs. Hudson help._ For all her saying, _"Not your housekeeper", _Sherlock knew Mrs. Hudson would not let the place fall apart around John; not now. Not if she could help it. An image flew through Sherlock's mind; John standing at the grave, crying. Sherlock winced. He just stood there, nailed to the floor, caught in his thoughts. A pang of guilt flooded him. Immensely irritated, he fought it off. "This is ridiculous", he spoke out loud. "I did what I had to do to protect John. I - ". The trail of words ceased as his eyes caught another sight, and he reached out his long fingers for the mantelpiece. The skull was still in its place. _Sentiment. _Heaving for breath, he put it down again and let his arm rest on the mantelpiece. To his surprise, he had to swallow a lump in his throat, and he no longer tried to fight his emotions. Exhaling deeply, he rested his head on his arm and closed his eyes. It was no use. He had done what was necessary, but the consequences for John were the same, despite his reasons. And at the moment, the thought of those consequences threatened to consume him. He straightened, and with one last look around the flat, he set off down the stairs and hurried out the door.

Later that day, in a familiar lab, in a familiar hospital, Sherlock got ready to run a few tests, hopefully resulting in catching the first of the three snipers that had threatened to kill his three friends. _Well, there are four now_, he thought fondly. Molly Hooper had indeed been his friend when he needed it the most.

_"Alone is what I have; alone protects me"._

His philosophy once, but not anymore. Not even at the time when he had said it to John to get him to leave. Out of necessity. To protect him.

_"No, friends protect people"._

_And so I did, my friend. Though you didn't know at the time. _Sherlock longed for the day when he could tell him. And that's what kept him going.

He focused his attention on the microscope.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's Notes: **_A much longer chapter this time. Thanks again to all who are following this story. Sorry to have taken so long to post this chapter, but I've been working on 'Aftermath', which is a prologue to this story, dealing with the fall and the first reactions post-fall. I hope you will check it out.

I expect to continue 'He is Gone' until season three airs and we get to see John's reaction to Sherlock's return.

**He is Gone**

Chapter 5

"But, Dr. Watson, how can you possibly say that Sherlock Holmes lied to you about being a fake and then committed suicide? Doesn't all the evidence point to his guilt?"

Some reporters were again flocking around John, now that they found he was willing to talk. Most had lost interest, though. That story had been covered.

For the few still interested, John now answered all questions. He shook his face that was drawn in sadness.

"Not all evidence, no. Sherlock himself taught me not to make a conclusion based on just part of the evidence, because that's ignoring the rest." John went on to tell them all he knew about Moriarty.

Yet, at the end of the day John himself was left with several unsolved problems. He could only present the world with the evidence; the facts. But to draw a conclusion... He sighed. Then he turned his face up to the sky, as though the answer might come from there. _Why?_ It wasn't that he hadn't tried to answer that question. He searched his brain over and over. He had worked with Greg to discover evidence. All he knew was that Moriarty had been on the roof with Sherlock. Somehow, this was - again - Moriarty's doing. But how?

_Why did you do it?_

Tired and frustrated, he drew a hand through his hair.

_How could you do this?_

...

Muted noise drifted through the park. Children squeeling happily, feet jogging, dogs barking. The sounds of life - they sounded strange to John. He and Greg sat on a bench, each their Starbucks coffee in their hands. Neither man said much, but John's mind was - as usual these days - a whirlstorm of questions.

Over the last few weeks, he had felt increasingly relaxed in Greg's company. The two had talked a lot about Sherlock, and though it was mainly to unravel the mysteries of his... suicide (John still flinched painfully at the word), it had worked out to be therapeutic to John. So whenever he wanted, he felt at ease dropping a remark about Sherlock. Like now.

"Why did he do this, Greg?" He paused, and Greg turned his face to look at him. "I mean..." John shook his head in disbelief. "... Why?!" His voice rose, his breath quickened. Putting down his cup, he stood up and walked a few steps. "I just don't understand". John was speaking loudly now. "Did he give up fighting Moriary... did he think it would be easier for us if we belived him to be a fake?" He heard Greg sigh at the same time as he himself did. "None of it makes sense!" His whole body was tense. "You know what the worst part of it is? I don't even know if I really knew him. I mean, for him to snap like that..." He choked on the last words.

Greg shifted uncomfortably, but then put his coffee down, rose slowly and walked up to stand next to John. He just stood there in silence for a few moments, wanting to offer some solace, but how? He was angry too. He didn't understand better than John did.

It was John who spoke again, after he had collected himself. "I said something awful to him, you know". Greg turned towards him, brow furrowed. John cleared his throat. "I got a call when Sherlock and I were in the lab, right before... it happened. It was about Mrs. Hudson. I was told she had been shot. I wanted Sherlock to come with me". John cringed. "He wouldn't come. Acted like he didn't care". He was now close to tears again. _You knew_."I called him a machine". The word made him want to crawl out of his skin. He flinced as he felt a touch on his shoulder. Greg withdrew his hand.

"We all say things we regret. You were always his friend, John. Sherlock knew that", Greg spoke softly.

John shook his head. "You don't understand. It was a false alarm. Moriarty must have set it up. And Sherlock -" His voice broke. "Sherlock knew. That's why he didn't come along. As always, he wanted to take care of things himself". He now turned to look directly at Greg. "And I left him. The next time I saw him was..." He couldn't finish, but Greg understood.

"You couldn't have known". John sighed as Greg continued, "I know you feel bad, but... listen; you were his best friend. I know, John; I knew Sherlock before you did. He was alone. I don't know if that ever bothered him, but I do know that he... he was happier... after he befriended you. Shit, I hadn't even seen him laugh, sincerely laugh, until then!" Greg smiled slightly at his own words.

But John didn't smile; he winced at Greg's words. "He was alone... and I left him alone again", he said in a low voice, and turned away. Greg called after him as he walked away, but he carried on, too depressed to listen.

John came home, weary with self-blame. When he entered his living room, he was more than a little surprised to see Mycroft sitting in Sherlock's armchair. A sudden wave of loss hit him. Seeing Mycroft again for the first time since the funeral triggered something inside him.

Mycroft stood up and held John's gaze, looking slightly concerned. "Hello John". His voice was even, but sympathetic.

For a while John stood in the doorway, just staring at Sherlock's older brother. At first he was surprised at what he felt. He wasn't angry. It felt like he had a connection with Sherlock through this man, and it both comforted and pained him. Then he remembered how detached the man was, and the connection was lost. John walked in and sat down, not saying a word.

Gracefully, Mycroft sat back down as well, studying John for a moment.

It started feeling like being deduced again, but then John noticed a change in Mycroft's expression, and that he seemed to adjust himself uncomfortably in his seat. _Probably uncomfortable being around someone who's grieving_, John reasoned.

The other man swallowed. "I - ran into Mrs. Hudson downstairs; she... told me that you didn't get rid of Sherlock's things..."

John just looked at him in a stupor. _6 bloody weeks, and this is what he starts with._ But then again, he shouldn't be surprised. Talk of emotions had never been an asset with the Holmes brothers. He sure didn't expect Mycroft to talk about them now, but as for himself, he was not up for small-talk. At all. He was about to say something - anything - to get big brother to cut it out, when -

"I'm sorry for what you're going through, John", the low voice spoke. It took him aback, and for a minute John didn't reply.

"He was _your_ brother", he finally said with a sigh.

"But your friend".

"Why are you here?" John's tone was not unkind, but still doubtful as to what Mycroft actually _was_ doing there.

It was obvious that Mycroft felt uneasy again. "I - I just wanted to let you know that... you can keep Sherlock's things. Or do with them what you think is best". He paused briefly. "Also... if there is anything I can do..." He let the unfinished sentence hang.

The thought hit John. _He's here to check on me_. He nodded in acknowledgement.

Mycroft got up from the chair, apparently getting ready to leave again. Another thought hit John as he also stood up, and this one tugged at his conscience. He had been avoiding Mycroft, blaming him for talking to Moriarty about Sherlock. In truth, it still made him a bit angry to think of, but his conscience nagged at him all the same.

Mycroft looked once more at John before heading for the stairs.

"Mycroft", John's voice stopped him. Mycroft turned around.

"Thank you".

It was Mycroft's turn to be taken aback, though his face barely showed it. He nodded curtly, turned, and left.

A light wind crept through John's jacket as he walked towards the cemetary. His stomach twisted and turned, and part of him wanted to turn around and go right back to Baker Street. But this was something he needed to do.

Walking past the church, heading for the black stone that was slowly coming into sight, John's throat started to feel thick. Sherlock's face appeared before his vision. It almost felt like he was there.

John stopped at the grave. For minutes he didn't move as his mind wandered.

"I still don't know why you did this", he started in a hushed voice. "How am I supposed to move on when my best friend killed himself, and I -". John looked down and forced out the words, "I might have stopped it? I left you alone, and I need your forgiveness for that. I called you a machine... I was wrong. You know I'm sorry". He looked pointedly at the gravesstone as he continued, "I'm also angry. I told you no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie... and I don't care what anybody else says, but you - you lied to me!" Forgetting where he was, his voice rose. "You lied, and then you - " He choked back the tears. "You did - this. And I'll never know why".

Desparate. That's how he felt. No hope for closure. How could he stand this?! He turned around and started walking - no, running - away from this place, away from the pain. He wanted to scream, to punch something - anything to find release from this nightmare. But he just kept running. Running until his legs would carry him no further, and his limbs burned. He collapsed on the sidewalk, heaving for breath for several minutes. When he could stand up again, he continued walking, partly jogging, as fast as his feet would carry him.


	6. Chapter 6

**He is Gone**

Chapter 6

_3 months after the fall_

"Your boarding pass and passport, please, Sir", an Americal accent floated up to him. Sherlock snorted softly and held out his papers. "Yes, I know", he said calmly, but not without a hint of disdain. "Excuse me?" the woman across the counter inquried sincerely. Sherlock sighed. "Nothing". _Mindless chatter._ It was driving him insane. For more than three weeks, Mycroft had not given him a case; not one that he was able to solve from abroad. Chasing down criminals linked to Moriarty was lately leading to one loose end after another. And with the absence of anyone to take his boredom out on, the stress was building up inside him. A now familiar ache spread in his chest, and a single thought: _John_, popped into his head, and it made him wonder how he used to get by before John.

On board the plain, Sherlock resorted to deducing the people around him, but that quickly got boring too. People's lives were completely uninteresting. _Couldn't there have been a murderer, or even a thief among them... some case to solve?! _Granted, Los Angeles had plenty of crimes, but even Mycroft could not perform his magic in the USA and provide him with a connection to the police here. His powers stopped at the border of England, unless some British citizen on holiday in Belarus had gone crazy and slaughtered his wife after having a bit of a ding-dong.

...

The plane was halfway from Los Angeles to New York City, when Sherlock for the umpteenth time sighed in exasperation, causing many glares in his direction, and pulled out his laptop. E-mail: A new one from Molly. _Mental note to save for later when _really _bored._ Molly had only e-mailed him once before, and although it was kind of her to try to make him feel connected to home - and he to some degree enjoyed it - Mycroft's texts and calls were much more informative.

A few times, Sherlock had tried to get Molly to check up on John, but apparently she felt very uncomfortable with his. Something about not knowing how to talk to John when she knew that Sherlock was alive. _How hard can it be? Walk up to him, say: "Hi, how are you doing?" Small-talk. Isn't that what people do? She doesn't have to mention me._ He got Mycroft to look in on John instead, and his older brother had complied twice already. Sherlock planned to keep him doing so.

Upon Sherlock's request, Mycroft had John discretely surveilled. He had offered his brother to bug the flat as well, which earned him a response not suitable to repeat. Sherlock would never dream of invading John's personal space without his knowledge. And - truth be told - he didn't need a constant reminder of John and 221b Baker Street. A text here and there would suffice. Most importantly, he just wanted someone to make sure John was ok.

Sherlock shifted in his seat and sighed again, but this time it was not from being bored. Was John ok? The reports about him were scarce and short. _John shows regular symptoms of grief; some sleep depravation, signs of withdrawal, lack of interest - nothing unusual_; Mycroft's personal report. _Goes to work, spends much time in his flat, repeatedly seen in the company of Detective Inspector Lestrade; _the surveillance reports. _Good_, Sherlock thought. _At least he has someone._ A sting in his chest made him slightly uncomfortable. _Not worth my attention._ John seemed alright under the circumstances. No signs of serious depression. _So he's fine. He's ok._

Sherlock managed to convince himself pretty well.

...

Three days and one flight later, Sherlock got back to his hotel room in Dublin, exhausted after a long wait and a strenuous search. A thorough background check on John's sniper had led to suspicions that he was - and for a years had been - an important person in Moriarty's team of criminals. Sherlock would try to find him, and find where he worked from - presumably in Dublin.

He shut the door, pulled of his coat and scarf and for once didn't care to hang them, and then threw himself on the bed.

Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out.

Something wasn't right. Or was it? He felt strange...

One minute passed. Then another.

No sounds. Just quiet.

_But that's usual. At least for the past two months it has been._

The strange discomfort did not dissipate.

Sherlock sighed and got up to start pacing across the short space between his bed and the door. Everything looked wrong, felt wrong. No holes in the wall, no skull, no... _John._ A thought creeped in to call Mycroft, but that immediately triggered a warning from somewhere inside him. Subconsciously, he knew that hearing about John would only lead him to a place deep down that he definitely did not want to visit. By instinct, he felt uncomfortable. But by another instinct, he also could not keep from picking up his phone and pressing speed-dial.

The phone rang only twice.

_"Hello?"_

"Mycroft".

_"Sherlock. How was your flight?"_ his brother said casually.

Sherlock ignored the question, but also hesitated asking the one he had on his own mind. "How is John?" he finally asked.

_"Straight to the point, as always, I see"_. There was a short pause, and it didn't go by unnoticed. _"I have not seen him since last we spoke, but I'm informed that he goes about life as usual. He goes to work"_ - another pause - _"apparently for long hours lately, and there is nothing suspicious in his activities"._

This didn't exactly tell him anything about how John was doing - except that he was working long, perhaps as some method of putting distance to his grief.

"You hesitated. What aren't you telling me?" Sherlock demanded.

As expected, Mycroft did not reply immediately.

"Really, Mycroft, your attempts to conceal the facts from me are an insult to my intelligence, now what - aren't - you - telling me?" he spat out.

_"I've told you everything, Sherlock. John goes to work, then comes home. Day in and day out"._

Sherlock sighed, his suspicions confirmed. John suffered signs of withdrawal. Not unexpected, but still... Sherlock closed his eyes. This phone call had done nothing to settle his nerves. _When will I learn?_ he chided himself.

That night he spent working long and hard at retreating to a corner of his mind palace _not_ related to John.


	7. Chapter 7

**He is Gone**

Chapter 7

_6 months after the fall_

John's phone beeped. New text mesage. _'Catch up for coffee later? The usual place. Greg'._ As soon as the work day was done, John got in a cab.

There was only a handful of other customers in the café that afternoon, so it was quiet. John prefered it that way. He took a sip of his black coffee. Across the table, Greg was looking quietly at the few customers going in and out. Two guys were chatting lively while waiting for their order.

The two friends spoke little. In the last couple of months, John's actions, if not his words, had clearly spoken that a certain detective was not a topic for conversation. Greg and John had both stopped working out the answer to the big _"Why?"_, though they never said as much to each other. It was simply the inevitable and natural course of things, however bitter. There was no answer. It had gone to the grave.

"I've got a few errands out of town in two weeks time", Greg remarked casually. "You could join me, if you like. Will be a couple of days. I love London, but it'll be nice to get some fresh air".

"Thanks, Greg, but the hospital is extremely busy. I'm taking extra shifts these days, and it's still difficult for everyone to keep up". He knew it was mostly a lie, but he could barely be bothered to feel guilty about it.

Though, when Greg took another sip of his coffee without commenting, he figured the DI was on to him, and felt just a little bit of remorse. _Or is it fear?_ John shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want to be found out. Eventually someone would approach the reason behind John's lies and recent detachment, and he really did not want to go down that road. So he kept adding bricks to the wall around himself.

Taking one more sip of his coffee, the doctor rose from the chair and said, "I have to go, Greg, got some papers to go through".

Greg got up while John was still making his way out, and sighed, his worried eyes following his friend.

John wrapped his jacket more closely around him and strode down the street, not bothering to get a cab this time. He needed the walk, the air, the sounds... Anything to distract him. The busy streets of London were helpful that way. Unfortunately, they were so busy that one could get lost in the crowd and left to one's own thoughts very easily. John resorted to shopping for a bit - not actually buying anything, because nothing interested him - before heading home to Baker Street.

...

_There is a dark figure on the edge of the rooftop. His long coat is flapping in the wind. John knows what's going to happen, and in panic he screams the only thing he can think of to prevent it:_

"Sherlock!" Abruptly, John sat up in his bed, breathing heavily, fear etched on his face. He took a deep, deliberate breath and closed his eyes, but behind his lids the scene kept playng. He opened his eyes wide up and forced his mind to focus on the room. Slowly, his furrowed brow relaxed, and his heart rate returned to normal.

After a nightmare like that, he knew he wouldn't be sleeping anymore that night. The nightmares occured more often lately, much like in the first few weeks after the funeral. John held his head in his hands and rubbed it gently. Stared into space. Glanced towards his drawer. The thought of the gun inside made him alert and tense for a moment. Then he pushed the thought away, again. It was just the meaninglessness of it all. But he could never really imagine pulling the trigger. His life was meaningless, perhaps, but not desparate. He could cope with the emptiness by putting one foot in front of the other, each day, at least for the time being. _But for how long?_

...

Later that day, when the silence of the flat became too much yet again, he decided to go for another walk. As he walked down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson came rushing out to him. "John, dear, I was wondering if you could help me for a moment". She didn't wait for a reply before stating her request, which made John wonder for a moment. His landlady was usually very modest, nearly embarassed to ask for help with anything.

"Sure, Mrs. Hudson". The man followed her inside.

The job done with little effort, he prepared to say "goodbye" and go out, when Mrs. Hudson invited him, "Oh, John, do you want a cup of tea? I baked these delicious oatmeal cookies this morning, you should try one". Before John could reply, the kind lady was already pouring water into the kettle, and he didn't have the heart to refuse. He rarely visited her these days, but she often checked in on him, if only briefly. It was clear that she wanted to help him. Like she was trying to do now. John knew, but didn't say anything. He would have a cookie and a cup of tea, and then retreat. Besides Greg, Mrs. Hudson was the next person he feared would try to talk to him about... that thing he didn't want to think of.

They sat for a while, drinking their tea, Mrs. Hudson small-talking ceaselessly about people he didn't know. It was oddly comforting. The woman's warm voice, filling his head with completely uninteresting information, chased away all unwanted thoughts.

"John, dear". Her tone of voice changed.

John could feel his stomach clench.

"I know the last while has been difficult for you".

He gritted his teeth.

"Maybe you need to talk about it".

He looked up at her, breathing heavily. "I can't, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sorry".

Her expression was warm, concerned. She reached out a hand, but John recoiled.

"I miss him too, deary". John looked away, not replying.

The landlady was only quiet for a moment before adding, "He was fond of you, you know -"

"Mrs. Hudson", he interrupted her sternly.

Seemingly at a loss, the woman did not press him further.

John let out a deep breath. As calmly as he could, he said, "Thank you for the tea". He tried to give her a reassuring, half-hearted smile, but it only turned out as a slight twitch of the corners of his mouth. Swiftly, he rose from the chair and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before leaving.

Outside, John sighed deeply, feeling horrible. He couldn't shake the guilt off either. Mrs. Hudson, the dear woman, had tried to talk to him, and he had closed off entirely.

Perhaps it was time to talk to his therapist again. John pulled out his phone before he could change his mind.


	8. Chapter 8

**He is Gone**

Chapter 8

_12 months after the fall_

He had never done so much running in his life. Not even when chasing criminals around London. This was different. More dangerous. He knew that at least some of the former consulting criminal's backers were on to him, as they had been evading him for months. _Brilliant._ It was much more fun this way. He put every minute of his days, and often nights, into the chase.

Panting, Sherlock pressed up against the wall and carefully peeked around the corner of the apartment complex, hoping to detect a member of his 'underground operation', yet fearing to be spotted by the enemy instead. He was lost. _Blasted!_ This would never have happened in London, where he knew practically each street inside out. The detective had only been in Berlin for a fortnight, in which he had been kept too busy to sit down and study city maps; an effort he always made when coming to a new place. However, with Moriarty's men in this city being on the run, he was pressed for time and forced to make a decision quickly: Throw himself blindly into the chase, or spend precious time planning ahead.

Sherlock looked around. He really needed an underground member right now! They were his local 'homeless network' that he had quickly got in contact with; another effort he made everywhere he went. They really were indispensable, though not as trustworthy as in London, as he never stayed in one place long enough to have time to build up a mutual trust.

Then he heard the sound of feet shuffling behind him, and he flipped around, gun in hand. Someone was standing right around the corner. He barely dared to breathe. As if on cue, the detective and the unknown man simultaneously took a step away from the wall to face each other, each man pointing a gun to the other's head. Sherlock exhaled sharply, and they both lowered their guns.

"Did you get him?" Sherlock demanded urgently.

The man in the grey suit and black tie shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but we are still tracking him. He can't be far".

Sherlock hissed through his teeth. Mycroft's men were in nearly as bad shape as the British government himself. Very useful for strategic planning, but hardly much help in a physical chase.

"Alright. You head through the port there and check behind the building", Sherlock pointed to his left. "I'll go down the lane here", he pointed straight ahead of himself, "and turn left". Without hesitating, they both ran off.

...

The detective hissed in frustration, as he entered the hotel lobby and headed straight for the stairs. Never mind that his room was on the 7th floor, and that he had just spent half a day running around the city. Bursting with annoyance, he had to blow off some steam. By the time he reached his room, he was exhausted, but still angry. However much he enjoyed the thrill of the chase, it was getting tedious to constantly lose track of the same people.

There was little enjoyment in chasing these idiots. It was not his 'work', but his 'mission'. Sherlock's thoughts were on one thing: Catching the criminals. Locking them up, if possible. Killing them, if necessary. His reason, his motivation, was lurking somewhere in the back, constantly pushing him harder. _John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade._ He would keep them safe at any cost and eliminate the threat to their lives. Mrs. Hudson's sniper had been found and locked up for good. The detective was now hunting the man who had pointed his rifle at Lestrade. It got more dangerous each time the man slipped through his fingers.

Sometimes he could feel Moriarty's web closing in on him, and it felt suffocating... and eerily familiar. Leading up to his fall, he experienced what 'normal' people might characterise as a sense of foreboding, but Sherlock did not rely on emotions. When he sensed something, it was based on facts. He had known Moriarty wanted him to commit suicide. All evidence had led up to that fact.

Now, however, he had little evidence of being tracked, yet he distinctly _felt_ that people were after him.

The nightmares were certainly not helping his possible paranoia. They had begun shortly after that day... Nightmares of Moriarty trying to kill him. Sometimes he would try to kill John, and Sherlock was unable to stop him. And sometimes they were about the night at the swimming pool, only in his subconscious mind something went wrong, and there was an explosion, and he would wake up, yelling, and with a hammering heart.

He desparately wished he could keep the nightmares at bay, but all he could do was to try not to let them affect his mission. So each morning, he would shake off the night's impact and prepare his next move. That was his life now.

...

**Author's Notes: **This chapter was a bit lacking in John/Sherlock feelings, I know, but I don't apologise :) I wanted to show what Sherlock has to deal with in chasing down Moriarty's men. More bromance coming up in the next chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

**He is Gone**

_Chapter 9_

18 months.

A short period of time, yet it could be so significant. It was how long John Watson had known Sherlock Holmes.

It was also the amount of time in which Sherlock had been dead. Amazing how 18 months could change a person's life, for the better - or for the worse.

John sat in his armchair, his eyes wandering about the living room, then the kitchen. Everything still reminded him of his friend, and just like that he was there... in his googles, doing an experiment... lying on the couch in his dressing gown, complaining about being bored... pacing the room with his fingers steepled under his chin... or standing by the window, playing his violin. John could see him clearly.

It was a blessing and a curse.

...

He had talked to his therapist a month ago.

"I feel like I'm losing him again. That he's... slipping further away". John sighed and hung his head. "I - I can't hear his voice clearly anymore. And his face is... it's stoic. I can't hear him laugh, see him smile". He gave a small, half-hearted chuckle. "I can't even see his familiar scowl most of the time".

Breathing heavily, he momentarily closed his eyes. "I don't want to move on. It will feel like losing him all over again, and he's already slipping...", he repeated.

"John, there are ways to hold on to the memories _and _moving on with your life. In fact, I think that you holding onto the pain will prevent you from remembering many things, good things, about Sherlock. Moments that the two of you shared. His characteristics. Things that were so uniquely _him_".

It hurt to hear. He hadn't wanted to consider this. John shook his head, but Ella leaned forward, her words careful, but more insistent. "What is your first memory of him?"

The memory flooded his mind instantly. Tears welled up and threatened to spill. _What good is this doing?_

"Every memory is painful", he simply said.

She looked at him sympathetically and spoke in a gentle voice. "Try. Please".

He had done so.

...

When he had come back to flat after the session, he had gone into Sherlock's bedroom, walked about the living room, and just taken in every corner of the flat. Each room triggered memories.

For months he had tried not to remember; it had been too painful. Sherlock was dead, and it hurt so much.

Then one day he had realised that he could not clearly hear his flatmate's voice anymore. Desperately, he tried to recall the manner in which he had said _"bored"_ or _"because you're an idiot"_, but the terrible reality was that he couldn't. Not precisely.

He was forgetting. Not the detective himself, but specific details.

He had cried again that day. Pulling himself together, he had then decided to write; write about Sherlock. Which he did. Like a madman. He would often forget eating or drinking, and sometimes he would stay up half the night if the memories kept flooding him. Other times he would stumble out of the flat in irritation because he couldn't think of another thing to write, and that just couldn't be, _couldn't be, because..._

Tears would spill.

He wanted to remember everything. He didn't want to forget anymore.

...

John walked up to the black headstone. He hadn't brought flowers. It didn't feel like something Sherlock would appreciate. Yet, as John looked at the bare ground, it looked so cold and unwelcoming that he almost regretted not bringing anything. Next time he would check if Mrs. Hudson wanted come along and bring a bouquet. Somehow, the gesture seemed more fitting if it came from her.

"Hello friend. It's been a while. Yeah, I know I've been avoiding you". He blinked repeatedly. "You're an arse, you know. If I thought you were an arse before, you should really know what an arse I think you are now". In his mind he could see a smile tugging at Sherlock's lips.

"For a while I thought I didn't want to remember you. Not because I was angry with you... though honestly I was... but..." John swallowed. "It... was too difficult. But I have to remember now; I have to, and you're going to help me. I'm going to talk to you about the things we've experienced together. And pray to God that no one hears me, or they might have me admitted to an institution". He gave a small, broken chuckle.

"I'm glad I met you, you know. In spite of everything... what I feel now... I'm glad". The admission had him blinking fiercely again. He drew a deep, stuttering breath. Then he sat down on the grass.

"Okay, so... here goes".


End file.
